Lost Girl

H. Lawrence D.

Description

For a sophisticated and titillating read, dip into The Lost Girl by famed British novelist D.H. Lawrence, known for producing such masterworks as The Rainbow and Women in Love. This award-winning novel is a journey of discovery, following protagonist Alvina Houghton as she experiences a series of devastating personal losses and seeks to find an ideal romantic partner, against the express wishes of her parents. The Lost Girl highlights Lawrence's keen insight into human behavior, and it's a must-read for fans of classic twentieth-century literature.

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775451853
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE LOST GIRL
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D. H. LAWRENCE
 
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The Lost Girl First published in 1920 ISBN 978-1-775451-85-3 © 2011 The Floating Press While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - The Decline of Manchester House Chapter II - The Rise of Alvina Houghton Chapter III - The Maternity Nurse Chapter IV - Two Women Die Chapter V - The Beau Chapter VI - Houghton's Last Endeavour Chapter VII - Natcha-Kee-Tawara Chapter VIII - Ciccio Chapter IX - Alvina Becomes Allaye Chapter X - The Fall of Manchester House Chapter XI - Honourable Engagement Chapter XII - Allaye Also is Engaged Chapter XIII - The Wedded Wife Chapter XIV - The Journey Across Chapter XV - The Place Called Califano Chapter XVI - Suspense
Chapter I - The Decline of Manchester House
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Take a mining townlet like Woodhouse, with a population of tenthousand people, and three generations behind it. This space ofthree generations argues a certain well-established society. The old"County" has fled from the sight of so much disembowelled coal, toflourish on mineral rights in regions still idyllic. Remains onegreat and inaccessible magnate, the local coal owner: threegenerations old, and clambering on the bottom step of the "County,"kicking off the mass below. Rule him out.
A well established society in Woodhouse, full of fine shades,ranging from the dark of coal-dust to grit of stone-mason andsawdust of timber-merchant, through the lustre of lard and butterand meat, to the perfume of the chemist and the disinfectant of thedoctor, on to the serene gold-tarnish of bank-managers, cashiers forthe firm, clergymen and such-like, as far as the automobilerefulgence of the general-manager of all the collieries. Here the ne plus ultra . The general manager lives in the shrubberiedseclusion of the so-called Manor. The genuine Hall, abandoned by the"County," has been taken over as offices by the firm.
Here we are then: a vast substratum of colliers; a thick sprinklingof tradespeople intermingled with small employers of labour anddiversified by elementary schoolmasters and nonconformist clergy; ahigher layer of bank-managers, rich millers and well-to-doironmasters, episcopal clergy and the managers of collieries, thenthe rich and sticky cherry of the local coal-owner glistening overall.
Such the complicated social system of a small industrial town in theMidlands of England, in this year of grace 1920. But let us go backa little. Such it was in the last calm year of plenty, 1913.
A calm year of plenty. But one chronic and dreary malady: that ofthe odd women. Why, in the name of all prosperity, should everyclass but the lowest in such a society hang overburdened with DeadSea fruit of odd women, unmarried, unmarriageable women, called oldmaids? Why is it that every tradesman, every school-master, everybank-manager, and every clergyman produces one, two, three or moreold maids? Do the middle-classes, particularly the lowermiddle-classes, give birth to more girls than boys? Or do the lowermiddle-class men assiduously climb up or down, in marriage, thusleaving their true partners stranded? Or are middle-class women verysqueamish in their choice of husbands?
However it be, it is a tragedy. Or perhaps it is not.
Perhaps these unmarried women of the middle-classes are the famoussexless-workers of our ant-industrial society, of which we hear somuch. Perhaps all they lack is an occupation: in short, a job. Butperhaps we might hear their own opinion, before we lay the law down.
In Woodhouse, there was a terrible crop of old maids among the"nobs," the tradespeople and the clergy. The whole town of women,colliers' wives and all, held its breath as it saw a chance of oneof these daughters of comfort and woe getting off. They flocked tothe well-to-do weddings with an intoxication of relief. For letclass-jealousy be what it may, a woman hates to see another womanleft stalely on the shelf, without a chance. They all wanted themiddle-class girls to find husbands. Every one wanted it, includingthe girls themselves. Hence the dismalness.
Now James Houghton had only one child: his daughter Alvina. SurelyAlvina Houghton—
But let us retreat to the early eighties, when Alvina was a baby: oreven further back, to the palmy days of James Houghton. In his palmydays, James Houghton was crême de la crême of Woodhouse society.The house of Houghton had always been well-to-do: tradespeople, wemust admit; but after a few generations of affluence, tradespeopleacquire a distinct cachet . Now James Houghton, at the age oftwenty-eight, inherited a splendid business in Manchester goods, inWoodhouse. He was a tall, thin, elegant young man with side-whiskers,genuinely refined, somewhat in the Bulwer style. He had a taste forelegant conversation and elegant literature and elegant Christianity:a tall, thin, brittle young man, rather fluttering in his manner, fullof facile ideas, and with a beautiful speaking voice: most beautiful.Withal, of course, a tradesman. He courted a small, dark woman, olderthan himself, daughter of a Derbyshire squire. He expected to get atleast ten thousand pounds with her. In which he was disappointed, forhe got only eight hundred. Being of a romantic-commercial nature, henever forgave her, but always treated her with the most elegantcourtesy. To seehim peel and prepare an apple for her was an exquisitesight. But that peeled and quartered apple was her portion. Thiselegant Adam of commerce gave Eve her own back, nicely cored, and hadno more to do with her. Meanwhile Alvina was born.
Before all this, however, before his marriage, James Houghton hadbuilt Manchester House. It was a vast square building—vast, thatis, for Woodhouse—standing on the main street and high-road of thesmall but growing town. The lower front consisted of two fine shops,one for Manchester goods, one for silk and woollens. This was JamesHoughton's commercial poem.
For James Houghton was a dreamer, and something of a poet: commercial,be it understood. He liked the novels of George Macdonald, and thefantasies of that author, extremely. He wove one continual fantasy forhimself, a fantasy of commerce. He dreamed of silks and poplins,luscious in texture and of unforeseen exquisiteness: he dreamed ofcarriages of the "County" arrested before his windows, of exquisitewomen ruffling charmed, entranced to his counter. And charming,entrancing, he served them his lovely fabrics, which only he and theycould sufficiently appreciate. His fame spread, until Alexandra,Princess of Wales, and Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, the twobest-dressed women in Europe, floated down from heaven to the shop inWoodhouse, and sallied forth to show what could be done by purchasingfrom James Houghton.
We cannot say why James Houghton failed to become the Liberty or theSnelgrove of his day. Perhaps he had too much imagination. Be that asit may, in those early days when he brought his wife to her new home,his window on the Manchester side was a foam and a may-blossom ofmuslins and prints, his window on the London side was an autumn eveningof silks and rich fabrics. What wife could fail to be dazzled! But she,poor darling, from her stone hall in stony Derbyshire, was a little bitrepulsed by the man's dancing in front of his stock, like David beforethe ark.
The home to which he brought her was a monument. In the great bedroomover the shop he had his furniture built : built of solid mahogany: ohtoo, too solid. No doubt he hopped or skipped himself with satisfactioninto the monstrous matrimonial bed: it could only be mounted by meansof a stool and chair. But the poor, secluded little woman, older thanhe, must have climbed up with a heavy heart, to lie and face the gloomyBastille of mahogany, the great cupboard opposite, or to turn wearilysideways to the great cheval mirror, which performed a perpetual andhideous bow before her grace. Such furniture! It could never be removedfrom the room.
The little child was born in the second year. And then James Houghtondecamped to a small, half-furnished bedroom at the other end of thehouse, where he slept on a rough board and played the anchorite for therest of his days. His wife was left alone with her baby and thebuilt-in furniture. She developed heart disease, as a result of nervousrepressions.
But like a butterfly James fluttered over his fabrics. He was a tyrantto his shop-girls. No French marquis in a Dickens' novel could havebeen more elegant and raffiné and heartless. The girls detested him.And yet, his curious refinement and enthusiasm bore them away. Theysubmitted to him. The shop attracted much curiosity. But thepoor-spirited Woodhouse people were weak buyers. They wearied JamesHoughton with their demand for common zephyrs, for red flannel whichthey would scallop with black worsted, for black alpacas and bombazinesand merinos. He fluffed out his silk-striped muslins, his Indiacotton-prints. But the natives shied off as if he had offered them thepoisoned robes of Herakles.
There was a sale. These sales contributed a good deal to Mrs.Houghton's nervous heart-disease. They brought the first signs of wearand tear into the face of James Houghton. At first, of course, hemerely marked down, with discretion, his less-expensive stock of printsand muslins, nuns-veilings and muslin delaines, with a few fancybraidings and trimmings in guimp or bronze to enliven the affair. AndWoodhouse bought cautiously.
After the sale, however, James Houghton felt himself at liberty toplunge into a